


Cattails

by Only_1_Truth



Series: Catboy!Q AU [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 00Q Festival 2017, Canon-Typical Violence, Cat!Q, Cat/Human Hybrids, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Light Petting, M/M, Mission Fic, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Pre-Relationship, Q is a Holmes, Sharing a Bed, depending on how you look at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 20:53:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11585988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth
Summary: When Bond is finishing a mission and trying to return from Russia, he doesn't expect to get tangled up with a catboy on the way out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The 00Q Festival continues! ^_^ This is my submission for "Fluff Week"... in which the fluff is both figurative and literal, because I gave Q a fluffy tail...
> 
> A quick note: the italics indicate when Russian is being spoken, at least 99% of the time. Occasionally it means thought, but hopefully the difference is pretty clear in those cases!

Moving unnoticed through Russia had been a lot easier before he’d met his contact, a skittish little man who was probably harmless under most circumstances, but who had given Bond away as a foreign spy literally minutes after passing on the information he carried.  It hadn’t been a purposeful action - rather an accidental betrayal caused by weak nerves and a terrible poker-face.  Bond was unsure whether his contact had made it out of their meeting place alive, but frankly didn’t care.  It had been hard enough making a run for it himself after his companion had gotten nervous and basically painted a target on both their backs.  

Now, with the _politsiya_ still on his tail but with a bit more breathing room, James was warming up in a local pub and metaphorically (and, to be honest, literally) catching his breath.  “Next time I make a run for it in Russia,” he grumbled under his breath, no one but his warmed whiskey close enough to hear him, “I do it in the peak of summer.”  It was late enough in the season now that the chill had been supremely unpleasant until James had stolen a car.  He downed another mouthful of alcohol to take the edge of cold off, even as he lamented the fact that he couldn’t afford to get drop-dead drunk.  He wasn’t out of the woods yet.  

“ _Are you finished with that, sir_?” the question came in Russian.  A passing server had gotten remarkably close to James’s table without his notice - a fact that made sense when James saw that he wasn’t dealing with an all-human.  Beastmen only made up a small fraction of the populace, and how they intermingled with the rest of the populace depended on the highly varied laws of each individual country.  This catboy would have been treated more or less like an exotic human being back in London, but here in Russia, James wasn’t surprised to see the collar around the young man’s neck along with the heavy iron ring at its front - likely for keeping the fellow locked up at night.  Being a beastman of the feline variety also meant that he had the ears, tail, and the damnably silent step of a real cat, which had allowed him to approach James without being noted a mile away.  

Pale, almost olive-green eyes blinked at James benignly behind thick glasses, however, and a quick assessing glance had James relaxing guardedly.  The half-cat server was probably only ten stone soaking wet - and the black ears rising from a ridiculous mop of dark hair weren’t giving away any physical sign of danger or even wariness.  While Bond had met some pretty dangerous beastman operatives in his time, he overall found that he liked the candidness of beastman body language: people with constantly moving ears and tails may as well have worn their emotional conditions on their sleeves for someone as trained as James was.  He put the dark-haired, bespectacled young man into the category of ‘non-threat’ and shook his head.  The only thing vaguely suspicious about the chap was the slightly accented way in which he had asked his question - which had been in fairly fluent Russian, but made Bond think of a non-native speaker.  That in and of itself was hardly shocking, as James had just received highly sensitive information regarding some highly influential human trafficking rings in Russian, rings that likely moved a lot of beastmen as cargo.  

James’s attention was abruptly diverted by the pub’s doors opening to admit multiple men who wore no uniforms but who definitely had Bond’s internal warning bells going off.  He sighed and put his drink down.  “ _Бля,_ ” he growled.  These men could have dressed like Buddhist monks and still looked like military-trained men to James, who could see the dangerous way they moved in the same way that he’d seen the unthreatening way that the catboy server moved.  Now the newcomers were spreading out throughout the pub, and everyone was starting to notice and get nervous.  

“ _Мы ищем этого человека_ ,” one of them started to say, but all James needed to hear was “We’re looking for-” and he was flashing through escape options, even before one of the new arrivals pulled a picture out of his pocket.  It didn’t take a genius to guess that some version of James’s face was on that piece of paper, and suddenly James was damning himself for growing complacent.  He’d been snuck up on twice-

The catboy was still there, standing by his table and staring with bewildered surprise at the plainclothes _politsiya_ blocking the front entrance.  Those _politsiya_ had also just spotted James, who’d had a split-second to realize that he wasn’t going to be able to slip out the back before being made.  As the same man who’d pulled out a picture of James reached for another pocket - this one containing a gun, Bond had no doubt - the British agent settled on a plan of action and shot to his feet.  He was faster than the man’s gun-hand, and also faster than the catboy’s reflexes: before the server could react, James was behind him with an arm locked around his throat.  “ _Не двигайся_ ,” James growled - ‘ _Don’t move_ ,’ a warning as much to his hostage as to anyone else.  Purely to the startled Russian officers, who were all drawing their weapons now, James dropped his voice to a dangerous octave and snarled out, “ _Я не хочу причинять ему боль, но я буду._ ”  ‘ _I don’t want to hurt him, but I will_.’  

The catboy, meanwhile, struggled in Bond’s grip.  As James had predicted, he wasn’t a match for the larger man’s strength, however, and a tightening of Bond’s arm across his windpipe had him going still with a small, startled sound.  “ _Пожалуйста_ _..._ ” he gasped out the soft plea.

James couldn’t very well say that he really had no intentions of harming the young man - in fact, he was depending on the catboy remaining unharmed, in a way.  While James and the feline-eared waiter were of wildly different builds, the younger man was of a similar height, allowing James right now to hide behind him.  Watching the gunman across the room, James could see that they were gauging this as well.  With the catboy as a human shield, James began to edge slowly backwards.  The tail that lashed fretfully against his thighs was a minor distraction, and he let his hostage grip onto his arm as they retreated.  

It wasn’t until James’s back brushed the bar, however, that he was reminded of one terrible fact: to Bond, this was a case of a human shield, a human hostage, but the rules of this country were different.  To the armed men across the room, their target was blocked by nothing more valuable than a common animal.  There was a warning gleaming in the eyes of the _politsiya_ that had led the group in, and then a soft, cruel smile that had James swearing in English.  

“ _Пристрели его_ ,” the man ordered in unhesitant tones: ‘ _Shoot them_.’

The catboy’s utter, horrified shock was something that Bond could tangibly feel, their bodies were so close; against his torso, he felt the young man’s body stiffen, and he could just barely see the surprised expression in profile.  James was already moving, though, and dragged his not-quite-shield with him in a desperate twist that carried them in a clumsy topple over the bar.  The catboy cried out, his frame convulsing in James’s arms before they both crashed down to the floor beyond.  Gunshots were ringing everywhere; their fall beyond the bar was followed by a rain of broken glass from the array of liquor bottles previously decorating the wall behind the bar.  James swore again, cursing himself for a fool and forgetting that some people valued lives differently than he did.  Perhaps a fully human hostage would have made trigger fingers hesitate, but James had grabbed himself a catboy instead.

That catboy was now curled up weakly on the floor, still alive, but wearing the painfully terrified look of someone who had just had their world pulled out from under them.  There was a lot of screaming going on amidst the gunfire now, and James felt a pang of conscience at the chaos he’d just caused for a lot of probably-innocent people - not least of which being the dark-haired young fellow in front of him.  “Come on,” James barked, then switched to Russian, repeating, “ _пойдем со мной_.”  He’d almost gotten this kid killed, so the least he could do was make sure ‘almost’ remained the operative word.  Grabbing one lean arm, he pulled, and dragged them along the bar to a door he’d noted upon entering the bar.  James might not have planned the last few minutes very well, but that didn’t mean he’d forgotten to plan entirely.  No self-respecting 00-agent entered a building without planning at least two exits.

The catboy’s glasses had survived the fall, but James noticed blood seeping from beneath the young man’s dark hairline - from the glass or from a glancing bullet, James didn’t know, and didn’t have time to find out.  In an awkward crouch, James moved along behind the bar, dragging the catboy unresisting behind him.  James counted off seconds in his head, knowing that it wouldn’t take long for one of the pursuing gunman to close in and round the bar, at which point there would be no hiding.  

They reached the back door just in time: as James more or less shouldered through the door and pulled the younger man after him, there was a spray of bullets right at their heels.  The sound of more wood and glass being torn apart nearly drowned out another sharp cry from the catboy, but James was optimistic that this was just a sound of shock, not further injury.  Hopefully.  “ _Торопиться_ ,” he urged the catboy to move faster down the short hall they’d now come to.  When the catboy belatedly balked, James growled and switched his grip from the young man’s arm to his nap.  “Either you-!” James started in English, then regained himself enough to push down the adrenaline and switch back to Russian for the rest of the threat: “ _Either you do as I say, or those men behind me kill us both - they don’t seem to care if you get caught in the crossfire._ ”

This close, James could see the slitted, feline pupils amidst the pale green - and could see as they widened and shrunk in a reaction to fear.  Nonetheless, the catboy caught on quick, and nodded.  He nearly tripped in his haste to keep up this time, as James hauled them both into motion again.  The second door was where he’d guessed it to be: seconds later they were charging out another door and into the Russian night.

James had scoped out the place as soon as he’d made up his mind to have a drink and a rest - so he’d marked the back-alley door.  He’d also stashed his car there.  Well, his stolen car.  Semantics.  What mattered now was that he soon found himself inside a vehicle that, while not bulletproof, was significantly harder to put holes in than just his own skin.  The catboy he tossed into the passenger seat, where the young fellow huddled with dazed, paralyzing fear.  Good.  Movement had been useful earlier, but stillness was what James wanted from his companion now, so James took in the fluffed up black tail and flattened ears and then immediately bent to start the car the same way he had the first time: via the wires, since he lacked a key.  

What he didn’t do was remove the catboy from the car.   _‘What the fuck are you doing, James_?’ he thought to himself, some part of him realizing that he should be dumping the catboy outside now - with the lull in the gunfire, it was safe to.  However, the same glance that had showed him wide-eyed fear had also showed more blood trickling down the young man’s left temple, and more spreading on his left upper arm.  James had some glass-cuts, too, but that arm-wound in particular looked like the kind that might have a bullet lodged in it, and Russia’s take on beastmen meant that medical care could get chancy for them.  Where did you take a half-cat, half-person individual, after all?  A hospital or a veterinarian?  In London, the answer was easy (hospital), but here, James was pretty sure that a doctor wouldn’t give this catboy the time of day, no matter how much of him looked human.  

So, instead of escaping alone, James coaxed the engine into waking up with a burbling growl.  He found the Russian phrase for ‘buckle up’ and was going to say more, but was unexpectedly interrupted as the catboy spoke in a clear (if quavering) tenor: “I speak English.”

James looked up in surprise, now able to identity the accent he’d been hearing within the catboy’s Russian - it was the same accent that most all 00-agent had to hide when they spoke other languages: British.  Unsure how to react to that, James merely grunted back, “You do indeed,” and slammed the car into drive.  They took off just as shouts and gun-barks burst out the door they’d just exited.  “Hold on!” Bond commanded as they tore through the alleyway, the late hour making trash and snow loom out of the dark as if magically materialized by the yellowed headlights.  Bond had a headstart on his pursuers again, but trouble wouldn’t be far behind.  

It was a wild drive through the dark, with at least two occasions where James pulled over so hurriedly into a side-street that it sent his passenger slewing to one side or another (even after the seat-belt was belatedly put on).  At one point, James turned the car off, blessing the blackness as it allowed them to become momentarily invisible in another alley.  James stuck a hand out, finding the catboy’s mouth even as the bespectacled fellow squirmed and tried to get away from him.  Feeling panting breaths across his hand, James ensured stillness and silence as the _politsiya_ roared past without seeing them.  After a few minutes, James withdrew his hand, and felt a tug of conscience as the catboy let out a shaky exhale that sounded more like a whimper.  It was only then that James found the time to murmur, “I’m not going to hurt you.”  

Eyes flicked over to him, reflecting a gleam of light in the dark.  It didn’t look like the catboy believed him, but he didn’t say anything.

An hour later found them in a suburb, James with a bolt-hole in mind and certain that he’d shaken his hunters for now.  The leggy catboy still in the car with him looked an absolute wreck, and James actually considered driving him to a hospital before recalling his earlier thoughts on the matter.  In fact, now that he really pondered it, he’d read reports of some pretty heinous atrocities committed against beastmen by medical professionals in countries that didn’t grant them human rights - Russia was hardly the only one.  James pulled over and once more reached over for his hapless companion, who once again flinched away - but more weakly, more miserably.  One long-fingered hand was wrapped around the bleeding arm-wound, and James ignored the attempts at cowering to wrap his own hands around the catboy’s limbs - one just below the injury, one around the wrist of the catboy’s other hand.  “Easy,” James hushed, getting the catboy to let go with effort, “Relax.  I just want to make sure you don’t bleed out.  Here, let me wrap it.”  

“Ow,” the catboy said, almost petulantly.  He was squeezed against the far door, and his reflective eyes showed how he was eyeing the door-handle now that the car had ceased moving.  James worked a bit more quickly, wanting to get at least a rough field-bandage in place before he let his unintended hostage go.  Of course, the catboy tried to make a break for it before then.  As soon as James let him go to tear a strip of cloth for bandaging, the young man’s hand darted for the door.  Bond was trained to be as fast as a cat, too, however, so he halted the motion - but while he grabbed one wrist again, the other struck out.  

Besides having the ears, the tail, and the eyes, catboys and catgirls also had the claws.  James braced for the feeling of retractable little hooks slicing across his cheek… but instead felt just the familiar sting of an open-palmed slap hitting his face.  As surprised as he’d been by hearing the Queen’s own English, James just blinked for a moment, nonplussed.  Meanwhile, the catboy cringed, looking caught-out and more than a little afraid of reciprocated violence.  After a moment, James gathered himself, and reached slowly and deliberately to gather up the young man’s other hand.  “No-!” the catboy squeaked, frantic, but by then James had hold of both of his arms and gave him a little shake.  

“I.  Will.  Not.  Hurt.  You,” James repeated staidly.  “All I want is to bandage that arm up, and then I’ll let you go.”

Eyes that had squeezed shut in fear eased cautiously open.  “You-?  You’ll let me go?”  The catboy sounded like he hadn’t been prepared for that statement.  

“And you’ll be free to seek whatever medical treatment you want,” James answered gruffly, taking advantage of the tentative ‘cease-fire’ to rip up a shirt-sleeve for bandaging.  He didn’t hesitate, but wrapped the strips tight around the catboy’s arm, tying them off snugly even as his passenger hissed (literally hissed) in pain.  

“I thought you said you wouldn’t hurt me?” the catboy griped.  

“I might have lied a bit,” James admitted shamelessly, but was sure to add, “I’m done now, though.  Go - go on.”

Again, that disbelieving but tentatively hopeful look.  “Really?”

“I’d have let you go earlier,” James admitted with an arched brow, “but I didn’t want you to get caught in the crossfire.  Now go - while there’s no crossfire.”  

The catboy didn’t need further coaxing.  However, he did look at James - then to the bandage, then back to James - one last time, and give a little nod.  Then he darted out the door like a cat away from water.  

James stayed in the car, telling himself that he’d turn the engine back on and leave just as soon as he was sure the catboy was situated.  And he didn’t have to watch long, because the dark-haired waiter soon took up a position under a streetlight, looking around pretty obviously for either a ride or a payphone.  Bond grunted in approval, and once again got the car started.  Then proceeded to stay where he was, the engine idling in ‘park.’  

Beastmen in non-sympathetic countries were seen as commodities.  They were bought and sold, and had owners.  Away from their owners, they were akin to stray mutts, and could be treated just as unscrupulously.  Suddenly James wished he’d had a toque to lend, because then at least the catboy would have been able to pass as more human.  Even now, James could see the young man purposefully coiling his tail in close as he huddled against the cold, ears remaining tucked low against his head - he’d pass for human, at least until someone picked him up.  Then…  Then, James wasn’t so sure, and suddenly he wondered if leaving the catboy on his own was such a good idea after all.  He looked very vulnerable right now, standing in his black-and-white waiter’s shirt and vest, the streetlight giving him a sickly yellow look like a lonely prostitute.  That was all to say nothing for the catboy’s injuries, which James really hadn’t had all that much time to check over and gauge the seriousness of-

James was mid-thought and already getting out of the car.  Lacking a shirtsleeve but with his dark coat snugged close, he strode quickly through the shadows and to the same streetlamp the catboy was waiting nervously under.  This time it was James who snuck up on the cat, and the blond-haired agent was just a pace away by the time triangular dark ears pricked up and swiveled his way, shortly followed by widening eyes.  

Wondering what had come over him, James caught the catboy by his ringed collar before he could skitter away.  “Let’s get you back in the car before you freeze or get kidnapped by someone less soft-hearted than I am.”

~^~

‘ _I’m out of my mind_ ,’ James thought to himself, as he chivvied his new companion into the bolthole ahead of him.  The room was simple and small and tucked away beneath a family-owned restaurant that was on MI6’s payroll from time to time - often enough to make them turn a blind eye when strangers used their hidden  basement.  Usually, those strangers were MI6 agents in the area, but tonight it included a very confused, very injured, and still very scared catboy.  

It had taken a bit of work to convince the fellow to take up company with James again - apparently being grabbed, threatened, whisked away on a car-chase were not the best starts to a trusting relationship.  Therefore, by the time James turned the catboy loose in the room, said catboy was actually bound at the wrists, and James was starting to understand how the road to Hell was paved with good intentions.  As James flicked on the light, the catboy flinched, night-acquainted eyes squinting as wide pupils shrunk to vertical slashes.  Bound hands held in anxious fists before him, the waiter backed away silently, although James judged that the silence was due less to belligerence and more to pain and exhaustion.  Cats were light on their feet, but this one was starting to shuffle and stagger, and the cloth about his arm was stained worrisomely red.  The side of his head was stained similarly.

“Easy there, easy,” James held his hands out, showing them empty, as he approached.  He heeled the door shut behind him and noted the simple bed with the box under it, the latter item containing a first-aid kit, if memory served.  The open door to the left gave a glimpse of a bathroom.  James and his new companion continued their little dance as James advanced and the younger man retreated, until the catboy didn’t have anywhere else to go and James was able to close the distance and lay hands on him again - but this time very gently.  “Eeeeeasy,” this time the 00-agent breathed the word slowly, knowing that he’d already caused enough discomfort and fear, and feeling a painful urge to correct a bit of that as he lifted his hands to either side of the catboy’s face.

Up close, he was really a rather pretty thing: big eyes, a wide, pink, expressive mouth, the former now pressing closed as the catboy emitted a terrified whine and brought his hands up weakly in between them.  James just made soft, low hushing noises as he got that head cradled between his hands.  “Let me see where the blood is coming from,” he explained himself in a low rumble.  He moved the fingers of one hand up into the catboy’s hair, but when the waiter flinched hard and tried to duck his head down between his shoulders, James (after a moment’s hesitation) switched tactics and merely smoothed a hand over the catboy’s head instead of investigating further.  Hair and ears both were silky soft, the textures only slightly different as he soothed his calloused palm against them.  The catboy’s eyes were still tightly closed and he was shivering, but he also let out a shaky little breath and relaxed his shoulders minutely at the unthreatening touch.  

“I’m sorry about all of this,” James said, and meant it.  He wasn’t accustomed to apologizing, but this young man certainly deserved it.  “What’s your name?”

The catboy now seemed less to be cowering and more to be bending his head to the careful ministrations of James’s hand.  “Q,” he said, with admirably little quiver in his voice.  

“Hm,” Bond accepted that, “Q, then… _may I_ find out where all of this blood is coming from?”

The statement, rephrased as a pointedly polite question, got better results than his first try.  Perhaps the petting was soothing some feline part of Q, too, because it was with another incremental easing of tensions that the dark-haired catboy nodded.  The way his eyes were closed now looked more tired than avoidant, and he leaned back against the wall.  As James began to sift through black strands of hair, focusing on the base of Q’s left ear where the drying smears of red seemed to originate, the 00-agent also looked down at his own chest - where Q’s bound hands were resting.  Now, with the luxury of time and good lighting, he could see faint scars on the backs of Q’s fingers, from distal knuckle to the base of each fingernail.  With a surge of pity and sympathetic anger, James recognized the surgical signs of a ‘declawing’ procedure.  Catboy (or catgirl) claws didn’t quite work like a regular cat’s did: instead of extending right from the bone, they were like tiny sickles connected to the distal phalanges by tendons, and retracted into slots up under each normal, human fingernail.  When they were removed, the tendons had to be cut, the little claws pulled out.  That was why Q’s slap hadn’t slashed James’s face open.  

Q’s eyes were open by the time James looked up, and it was clear that he’d ascertained James’s thoughts by the slightly ashamed but resigned look on the catboy’s face.  “I’m something of a housecat, I’m afraid,” he said in a thin voice, avoiding James’s eyes but flexing his harmless fingers slightly.  Q flinched but kept talking as James’s own fingers found the source of the bleeding on his head: a shallow laceration, likely from the falling glass, already scabbed over but probably in need of stitches if it was to be kept from reopening.  “They were removed when I was first taken.  That was some years ago.”  Q’s ridiculous mop of hair had saved him from most other cuts, but James took a moment to feel along each silken ear just to be sure they were undamaged.  Surprisingly, Q tolerated the ministrations, seeming to have calmed significantly after five minutes of James being gentle instead of antagonistic.  “They did a clean job of it, thankfully - something about my being ‘quality merchandise’ - but my fingers still ache in the cold.”

“You were taken from England then?” James guessed, putting the pieces together.  He denied to himself that he was now stroking Q’s soft ears simply because they felt good, and because the gesture seems to make Q feel good as well.  He’d have to check out the catboy’s arm soon, though, since it now appeared to be the more serious injury.  “When?”

“Sussex Downs, about five years ago.”  Q’s eyelids were at half-mast, quietly focused on Bond’s collarbone but probably not actually looking at anything.  One blink and those eyes sharpened fractionally, before the catboy amended, “Five years exactly next Friday, actually.  I’m sure my family thinks me dead by now.”  

James decided to keep his mouth shut about the fact that he was going back to London in [hopefully] just a few days.  It wouldn’t do to get Q’s hopes up, especially since they were only just beginning to get along and trust one another.  So instead of commenting, James stopped fondling Q’s ears and instead suggested gently, “How about you sit on the bed?  I think I can patch you up without fetching a certified medical professional-”  Q made a wincing face, and James didn’t have to ask to read bad memories in that expression.  It was probably a medical professional who had stolen Q’s claws.  “-But I don’t want you falling over while I do it, and pardon me for saying so-”

“But I look like death warmed over?”  To James’s pleasant surprise, a very small smile flirted with the corner of Q’s mouth.  

The agent smiled wryly back, charmed despite himself.  “I was going to say that you looked beat, but if the shoe fits…”  

Q shambled over to the bed without protest, and sank down onto the sagging mattress with a tired groan.  His eyes had fluttered shut again and his head was sagging back on his neck by the time James crouched in front of him, going first for his pocket-knife - Q opened his eyes and got a bit nervous again when the blade _snicked_ open.  The black length of Q’s tail fluffed out and twitched even if the rest of Q merely tensed warily.  “Just getting this off,” James reassured, his free hand grasping the bit of rope he’d pulled from the car-trunk to bind Q’s hands, “It’s hardly necessary, after all, yes?”

An eager nod was the response, and James had a moment to appreciate the trust Q had for him as the flat of the blade kissed Q’s vulnerable inner wrists before neatly severing the bindings.  James kept his knives wickedly sharp, and it would have been but the work of a moment to open up arteries instead of rope - but Q seemed to have realized that the former option wasn’t going to happen to him.  

“So what are you doing here?” Q dared to ask, almost pulling off a light tone - the dark circles under his eyes and the pinched corners of his mouth gave away the fact that he was drained and in pain, though.  

James fished out the sizeable first-aid kit and grinned triumphantly as he found pain pills.  He handed the container to Q, his smile freezing a bit as he once again caught sight of the tiny silver scars on the back of Q’s fingers and thumbs as the little bottle was exchanged.  Q read the label, grimaced, then shook out two with hands that in turn shook a bit.  

Deciding that a bit of trust in return wouldn’t hurt, James explained carefully as he got a few more supplies and also ambled over to the bathroom to fill a bowl with water.  He was gratified to see that the water hadn’t been turned off, something that occasionally happened when this bolthole wasn’t used often enough.  “I know information that the local government would rather I not know,” he explained, “I was hoping to be out of the country by the time anyone realized I had it, but if hopes were horses, then beggars would ride.  Here - hold this to your head to soften all that dried blood up.”  

Q took the cloth that James had just wetted and handed him.  His face contorted as he pressed it up against his head, although some of that might actually have been annoyance at having water squeezing out of the cloth next to his ear.  The dark triangle gave an irritated flick, and James fought the urge to chuckle.  

“Sounds like you’re in the spy business,” Q was surprisingly keen enough - and bold enough - to note.  It was possible that he had finally just gotten so exhausted that his survival instincts were shorting out, making it possible to ask this question without flinching.  James was well aware of how dangerous he appeared to others, yet Q looked at him now with nothing but dull, idle curiosity in his weary eyes.  

“I’m in a lot of people’s business,” James twisted the wording to avoid revealing anything more.  Further distracting from this line of questioning, he leaned over and began untying the makeshift bandage on Q’s arm.  There wasn’t quite as much blood as he’d feared, but he still couldn’t get a good look at it with Q’s shirt in the way.  Deciding that they couldn’t both go around missing sleeves in the cold weather, James commanded, “Take your shirt off, Q, so I can look at this.”  He nodded to Q’s left arm, and the blood that had stained a broad oval right below the shoulder.  

Taking the white button-down shirt off required removing the neat black vest, and Q did get a bit nervous when it became clear that he was about to denude himself to the waist in front of a proven-dangerous stranger.  James just crouched down, weight settled on his heels and arms draped over his thighs, and did his best to appear harmless.  At least Q had only seen him in defensive situations - offensively, James was a harder monster to handle.  After a long eyeing of James’s person, Q gave in, and in stiff movements began to attack his buttons.  When it came time to slide the vest off, however, it became clear that Q was in more pain than he wanted to admit, and James rocked forward to help ease the article of clothing down the catboy’s injured arm.  The cloth previously held to Q’s scalp lay discarded on Q’s lap, sadly seeping into his pinstriped trousers.  Feeling more sorry for this whole state of affairs by the second (and sorry for Q in general), James continued helping until Q was naked from the waist up except for the thick collar about this neck.  The 00-agent lifted up the cloth to Q’s head again.  “Keep it there,” he reminded gently.

When James moved up to sit on the bed to Q’s left, the catboy shifted nervously, and tried to awkwardly hold the cloth in place with his right hand while James took possession of his left arm.  The agitated lashing of Q’s tail gave away that he wasn’t comfortable with this, so James tried to soothe him again.  The backs of James’s knuckles brushed the sleek, medium-length fur of Q’s tail, causing it to freeze for a moment.  “Where are my manners?” James feigned polite horror, easing the mood a bit with a disarming smile.  “Bond.  James Bond.  Loyal servant of the crown, and very sorry to have gotten you into this mess.”  He went from holding Q’s arm hostage to gently grasping his hand - not shaking it, as movement seem to pain Q, but cradling the bones in a warm and polite grip.  

Q’s tail-tip twitched but declined to fully move away from Bond’s other hand.  “I’m not sure if I’m pleased to meet you,” Q had just enough moxie left to joke with a fleeting, exhausted smile, before admitting with something like genuine happiness, “But it’s nice to hear another British voice again.”

This time, the chuckle escaped, and James found himself smirking crookedly in the face of this catboy’s resilient mood.  “The pleasure is all mine, in that case.  This next bit, though…”  James dropped the smile to grimace sympathetically instead, starting to prod at the wound he could now see clearly - definitely a bullet-wound.  “-Isn’t going to be as enjoyable.  Did you take those painkillers?”

Baring even white teeth in a hiss that was almost viperine, Q grated out, “Shit.  Yes, I did…  Fat lot of good it’s doing me.”

“They’ll kick in,” James reassured.  He took the discarded bandage and damped it, cleaning the wound but knowing that he’d also have to disinfect it.  There was good news, though: “Looks like a through-and-through, which means you’ll be spared the torment of me digging a bullet out of you.”

“I’m indebted to you for that.”

“For being shot?  Yes, I suppose you are.  Although I’d hardly say ‘indebted’.”

“No, I mean…”  Q paused, shifting his grip so that he was rather hilariously draping his right arm over his head to hold the cloth to the left side of his skull.  He went on slowly and considerately, “I mean, when you realized that… the hostage bit… was going south, you pulled me out of the way.  You could have just left me to get shot to pieces while you escaped, but you didn’t.  I’m not stupid.  I can see that I got off lightly with just one bullet-wound and this damned cut on my head.”

Uncomfortable with the thanks, James kept his blue eyes on his work, even though he was aware of green eyes on him in return.  Some sort of response was expected, he knew, but his usual silver tongue felt more leaden than usual.  Ultimately, he ended up saying stiltedly as he disinfected the seeping wound on Q’s upper arm, “The only thing worse than involving a civilian in my problems would be getting one killed in the process.”  Q was hissing in pain again, lines of unexpectedly lean muscle showing on his slim figure as he tensed against the sting.  Bond turned to dig out the small ampule of numbing agent, glad to see that the kit’s supply of packaged, sterilized needles had been restocked.  He said with grave truthfulness as he drew a shot that would numb up the wound for the necessary stitches, “I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a right bastard, but I wouldn’t have just left you.”  There was the urge to say more - to say that he wouldn’t leave Q now, here in Russia - but again he bit his tongue.  Experience had taught him to avoid rash promises, or at the very least to withhold them until he was more sure of his footing in the situation.  

Silence descended as James braced a hand on Q’s arm and then raised the needle, which Q eyed warily.  “I’ve had enough stitches without this-”  Bond wagged the syringe pointedly.  “-To know that you’re going to want this shot, so stop giving it the side-eye and sit still.”  

Q, for his part, gave Bond a stroppy glare that only faltered when the needle's sharp tip sank into the skin by the wound.  The colorful swearing that followed showed that Q was finally at the end of his tolerance, because he’d managed to hold his tongue up until this point - and now he was swearing in Russian.  James smirked faintly in appreciation of the language, then coolly opened up another packet, this time containing a clean, hooked needle and thread.  

What followed was a rather anticlimactic bit of doctoring: the wound was soon numb, and even if it wasn’t, Q was sagging with fatigue and seemed to have finally reached the point where it took too much energy to give a fuck about all of this (after the bout of swearing, he had subsided and ended up leaning back against the wall while James worked).  The procedure was then repeated on Q’s head, which took a bit more work, if only because of the hair in the way.  “How do you live with this ridiculous mop on your head?” James couldn’t help but ask as he knelt up at Q’s side for a better vantage point.  

Sagged listlessly against the old concrete wall, Q’s mouth kicked up at once side, but he kept looking forward - even though he’d taken note of a second syringe in James’s left hand.  “I could ask you the same thing about those ridiculous ears of yours,” he returned smoothly, and James suddenly wasn’t sure whether to laugh or tweak Q’s tail in response.  He settled for a poorly hidden cough of amusement and ran his right hand over Q’s head, ostensibly to get now-damp hair out of the way, but also taking the time to pet the catboy’s ears back against his head again.  They folded down easily against his touch, and this time, a thrumming purr started up in the younger man’s throat.  A glance down showed Q’s eyes slitted appreciatively, and that warmed and settled something restless in James’s core.  Only then did he part enough hair to get at the cut, and after a few threats to shave a portion of Q’s head (the catboy didn’t believe the threat for a second), once again numbed and then sewed up the cut.  Three stitches later and James was smoothing down Q’s hair and ears again, admitting to himself that, no, he wouldn’t have willingly cut Q’s hair, because it should probably be a crime to remove hair that damn soft.  

By this point, Q was at least three-quarters asleep.  

“Hey,” Bond nudged him, but kept his voice quiet and gentle.  Sleepy green eyes flicked to him, a faint line of query appearing between Q’s brows.  “We’re safe here, so how about we both catch some shut-eye and decide how we want to part ways in the morning?”  Or whether they wanted to part ways.  James was growing more and more hopeful to be leaving Russia with Q, even though it would be a logistical nightmare.  There was no way that Q had a passport or any identifying papers with him, and would probably be treated more like a pet or piece of carry-on at the airport anyway.  Still, Bond hoped to have until at least morning to figure all of that out, before also testing whether Q actually wanted to abscond with him.  

Q was already nodding sleepily by the time James finished the sentence - the words ‘shut-eye’ may as well have been a soporific.  Then those green eyes sharpened, looking around for a moment before noting, “There’s only one bed.”

“Well, thankfully there are extra linens in the cupboard in the loo - which means a nightshirt for you and a place on the floor for me,” James said, standing and also holding out a belaying hand as he added, “And don’t argue, because I’m not letting the person with the most stitches sleep on the floor.”

James had just turned his back to fetch blankets and a shirt when Q’s soft voice reached out from behind him, “And… what about sharing the bed?”

The agent’s feet paused, then turned, and he regarded Q with wary curiosity.  Exhaustion was dragging down on Bond, too, even if he was trained to handle it better than a civilian like Q, and he had to admit that the bed was as tempting as water in the desert - and while Q’s words had been tentative, his expression didn’t look troubled.  Half-cats like Q were often known for being affectionate, but James had learned not to put a lot of stock in stereotypes, especially when he’d only known the other person for less than four hours.  

Before Bond could say anything negative about the idea, Q kept talking, voice remarkably professional and mild for the situation, “I imagine that if you truly had evil intentions towards me, you’d have shown signs of them by now.  And trust me, over the years I’ve learned to identify the look of people who just see me as a piece of tail - no pun intended.”  Q’s actual tail gave a little swish across the blankets and a slightly bitter smile canted Q’s expressive mouth.  His eyes remained clear, though.  “Also, on a more pragmatic note, I know that when I’m past a certain point of exhaustion, my body temperature ceases to regulate, so having another body nearby will ensure that I don’t have to freeze all night.”

Bond couldn’t help it: he snorted, then chuckled, looking away as he gave his head a wondering shake.  This catboy was truly unbelievable… and James rather liked it.  “So you’re welcoming me to your bed as a glorified space-heater?”

“That’s one way to put it.  A very high-class glorified space-heater, though, I assure you.”

“You make me sound like a high-class whore.”

“You’re not pretty enough for that.”  

James devolved into laughter entirely at that point and lost his will to argue.  Turning to the loo, he fetched blankets and a shirt as planned, but the former he returned to dump on the bed instead of the floor.  “Fine.  I’ll be your ugly, high-class space-heater for the night.”

Despite looking absolutely exhausted, there was a playful glint in the catboy’s eyes, and Q switched out his previous deadpan for something lighter, “I never said you were _ugly_.”

“Flatterer,” James chuckled, before taking a turn in the bathroom to wash up a bit.  There was no hot water, so he gave himself only a cursory shower - enough to ensure that he got the last bits of debris out of his hair and put an adhesive bandage or two on the small cuts he had acquired.  All in all, he was dressed and out of the loo in under twenty minutes, and opened his mouth to say that Q could take his turn only to see that the catboy was quite asleep.  

Something in him softening, James leaned against the doorway and watched for a moment.  Q had the blankets piled on himself right up to his cheekbones, so there was only the upper part of his face visible, and then his dark mass of hair and tapered ears.  There was no evidence of the shirt James had collected for him, the only clue that Q had put it on before crashing.  A pair of shoes were neatly paired by the side of the bed.  It was a sign of how truly spent the catboy was that he’d fallen asleep so easily under the circumstances, but James wanted to think that trust played a role in that as well - if nothing else, it seemed like Bond was the first person from Britain, from home, that Q had seen in a bloody long time.

Feeling a pang of sadness at that last thought, James turned off the lights and moved forward in the dark.  He set his shoes on the floor, placed his jacket and weapons by the bed within reach, then climbed into bed fully clothed.  Q pulled in and sighed out a deeper breath, but otherwise gave no indication of noticing the intrusion, despite the fact that the bed was a tight fit for two grown men.  It took a bit of care, actually, to get under the covers without accidentally putting a knee down on Q’s tail, but Bond managed.  He lay still for a moment, anticipating the usual alert wariness that came with having another body so close.  The feeling of pending vulnerability didn’t come, however.  

James was just closing his eyes and sinking into a light sleep when the body at his left shifted and rolled.  Q pressed closer, and it took a moment to identify in the dark that Q had turned so that he could press his curled hands against James’s bare left arm.  ‘ _His fingers ache in the cold_ ,’ James remembered with a sudden bolt of sympathy.  Deciding that it was the least he could do, after trying to use Q as a human shield and nearly getting him killed, James rocked onto his left side, putting him face-to-face with the still-sleeping catboy.  Very carefully, not wanting to wake or alarm him, James reached out and pulled the unresisting body a little bit closer - then repositioned Q’s hands so that they were pressed against his chest and soaking up the body-heat through Bond’s shirt.  

There was the faintest glint of reflective eyes opening in the dark and then closing.  Then declawed fingers pressing greedily closer, kneading the muscles along Bond’s breastbone.  Then the low, inhuman thrum of a purr.  James found himself smiling and drifting off to the noise, subliminally aware that this was a sound of thanks, and also a pretty good indicator that Q wasn’t going to try and kill his ‘space-heater’ in his sleep.

~^~

The next morning found them tangled up like lovers in bed.  In their defense, the bed was small, and the bolthole was cold, and James liked having the wall at his back instead of the room - so somehow, by morning, they’d switched positions and Q was playing the little spoon with James curved around his back like a possessive wall.  Bond had one arm tucked around Q’s stomach with one of Q’s hands curled up against his palm, while Bond’s other hand rested near Q’s throat with one finger hooked in the loop of Q’s collar.  The previously cold metal ring was body-warm now, and if Q had noticed Bond unconsciously grabbing it in the night, it hadn’t bothered him.  They lay now with Q’s chin tilted up slightly to allow the large, scarred hand underneath, and Bond’s breath rustled dark hair behind Q’s relaxed ears.  

Wakefulness came slowly, gently.  A flick of one of Q’s ears; a flexion of Bond’s hands as he checked where they were; a small hum on Q’s part as he, too, noted Bond’s hands but wordlessly accepted their positions; Bond stretching subtly with a groan from sleep-stiff muscles (all without actually moving away, because after all, Q hadn’t _pushed_ him away), then settling again to murmur against the back of Q’s neck, “Come back to London with me.”  

Q shivered against him, his tail flicked against James’s knees, his fingers pressed more needily into James’s laxly curved palm.  “Yes.”  It was hard to tell if Q’s voice was rough from sleep or something else, but when he repeated the word even more raggedly, it was clear that there were tears in Q’s voice, “Yes.  God, yes.  I was hoping you’d say that.”  Softer, his body curling in on itself, “I want to go home.”

Bond unhooked the unconscious finger he’d looped into Q’s collar, instead daring to press his palm flat against Q’s chest and pull the smaller body closer to him in a hug that he felt Q needed.  He felt the sudden urge to take Q’s collar off, something that he’d been too tired to  consider last night, but already his brain was working logically - thinking of the easiest ways to get an undocumented beastman across the border, which would probably be best achieved if Bond presented Q as his collared pet rather than a fully self-sufficient human being.  “You may not think so,” he said as Q continued to shake against his chest, “but I still think I owe you for all the trouble I caused last night - and even if I didn’t…”  James sighed, and was close enough to actually hear it when Q felt the warm air and reflexively twitched an ear.  Clawless fingers squeezed Bond’s forearm, holding it close.  “...I’d still take you home.  I think you’ve more than earned it after surviving five years like you have.”

It was a testament to how tough Q was that he never made a sound, and Bond only knew that he was crying because he was close enough to feel the tremors of it, and little drops of wetness against his skin.  

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is back in London - but he needs a bit of support to meet his family again. And then, perhaps, some support after that, too. Luckily, James is willing to offer his services in both cases.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be all fluff for the 00Q Festival, but a bit of light angst crept in... but only because that gave me more excuses to write cuddles and petting! Which you can expect more of in this chapter ;) There also might be faint BDSM-y undertones...? It's so faint that I didn't officially tag for it, but if you squint, it's there at the very end!

Bond leaned against his Aston Martin, looking at the quaint home at the edge of Sussex Downs.  British weather being what it was, the air was filled with a light drizzle, but James didn’t mind.  

“We really should have brought an umbrella,” said the catboy next to him, clearly disagreeing about the weather.  Q, dressed in a tweed coat with the collar turned up - and no collar underneath, the leather with its metal ring angrily discarded in the bin at Bond’s flat the night before - stood with his ears flattened against the misty wetness.  Beads of water decorated his hair in a way that James found quite charming.  

“Well, we could also go up to the door and knock,” James suggested sotto voce, and leaned over to nudge Q with his elbow.  Bond was on Q’s right side, so he didn’t have to worry about the stitches, which were healing nicely.  The moment they’d landed on British soil, James had demanded Q see an actual medical professional, and had been rather surprised by just how opposed Q was to the idea.  It took a moment for understanding to sink in, and for James to remember that Q had just spent that last five years in a place where he was treated like an animal.  By this point, Q was actually screaming at him, however, in an effort to make clear how very much he did not want to see a ‘dog butcher,’ as he called them.  Fortunately, they were in James’s flat by then, which was sound-proofed enough that there was no need to worry about anyone else hearing some of Q’s fears getting the better of him. James was there, though, as some of Q’s nightmares slipped out, giving James brief snatches of stories that Q should never had endured.  Being darted and knocked out like an animal at the slightest sign of resistance; being treated like he was mute, with no choice in his own treatment, whether that treatment was an antibiotic shot or a de-clawing.  The shouting match had ended with James waiting quietly for Q to run out of energy, then coming forward with the quiet tread of a man approaching a defused bomb (something done with respect, because a bomb was still a bomb even if it was defused).  Q had allowed himself to be folded into a hug, and had choked on a sob as he’d fisted Bond’s shirt.  Q had nearly bent his glasses with the force of how he buried his face into Bond’s collarbone.  If he’d had claws, he’d have punched holes in Bond’s shirt, too.  

Bond had already known that Q was used to being chained regularly - that was common practice in countries that put beastmen more into the category of beast than men.  Surprisingly, this was the one part of his subjugation that Q took rather philosophically, and he didn’t obviously mind the collar.  If anything, Bond hated the collar and what it represented more than Q did, so it was with mixed feelings that they entered the airport with Bond posing as Q’s owner and Q leashed obediently to him.  This alone wouldn’t have gotten them out of the country, but it turned out that Q had a lot more skills than those he’d been employed for at the pub: Q spoke computer more fluently than he spoke Russian (which was saying something, because after five years immersed in it, his Russian was flawless).  The moment he and James had begun planning their escape to London, Q had demanded that they find a computer he could access.  

“I nearly escaped within a week of first being kidnapped,” Q divulged as they sat in an internet cafe a half-mile from the safe-house.  They were at the far end of the rows of computers, so that Bond could lean against the wall behind Q’s chair and watch all the exits.  They’d managed to find a striped toque for Q that was doing a marvelous job of not only hiding his ears but making him look adorable, and the catboy had acquiesced to tucking his tail down his pants - something that he’d done with a grumpy frown, claiming that it ruffled his fur something horrible.  It kept them inconspicuous, however.  “I got my hands on a tablet and managed to get past the security measures before anyone even noticed I had it.  Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to get out much more than the vagues ‘S.O.S.’ before I was found out.”  Right now, it looked like Q had just hacked into three very official-looking websites all in under ten minutes, so James wondered just how swiftly Q’s captors had stopped him.  “Since then, everyone has been warned not to let me near technology,” Q said with muffled regret tinging his voice.  Now it appeared that Q was carefully editing a few bills of sale… his own bills of sale.  Bond saw his own name replace someone else’s, and nodded in approval.  He wasn’t happy being Q’s owner on paper or in reality, but he saw the usefulness of it.  If they had documentation showing that James legally owned Q, he could take him wherever the fuck he wanted.  “I’ve still gotten internet access a handful of times, but never for long enough to affect my own escape,” Q finished sadly before perking up.  “There.  I’ve sent all the proper documentation to the printer.  If you’ve got the cash to pay for the paper-”  Q swiveled around to face Bond with a cheeky grin.  “-Then you’ve just bought yourself a slightly used catboy.”

“Q...” Bond grumbled in an admonishing tone, unable to joke so easily - this from a man who could joke about corpses while the blood was still fresh.  The prospect of escape was making Q’s mood imperturbable, however, and he merely kept smiling and led the way over to the block of printers.  Bond swiped his card and soon had a sheaf of pseudo-legal papers stuffed into his jacket.  

Things had gone smoothly from there, with one hitch that was completely unexpected.  While Q was able to joke quite a lot about his life since being kidnapped, all humor ended the moment Q got into the airport.  The more snippets Bond heard about Q’s past five years, the more he’d come to understand that it wasn’t the owners who were cruel to Q - it was the people in between.  Q had had two owners in five years, and both of them had treated him about like one would treat a dog: not unkindly, just not as an equal.  The slavers and sellers, however, were another story - that was where the cruelty lay, and that was the shadow that came to haunt Q as they got closer and closer to boarding the plane.  Q got more and more fidgety, soon beginning to sweat, unable to sit still.  When asked what was wrong, he’d just shake his head, refusing to answer, even as adrenaline dilated his eyes and his tail fluffed up.  It started to become actually necessary to follow the local leash-laws, because if he hadn’t been connected to Bond by a leash, it became evident that Q would have fled right out of the airport.  

Someone walked by while James was trying to be as subtle as possible about getting Q to stop pacing and sit down.  It was an older woman with a leash of her own in hand - behind her walked a petite, feathered individual, a pretty gold-feathered birdgirl.  The old woman felt the need to approach Bond, smile benignly, and opine, “I hope you have a crate for that one.  Looks like he’s not a practiced flier, not like my Darla.”  She reached back to pat the birdgirl’s feathered head proprietarily while Bond smiled and nodded woodenly.  Q had gone very still at the end of the leash, and when the woman left and Bond turned to him, Q was very pale.  

“I was…” Q finally started to explain, wetting his lips and wrapping his arms around himself.  “I was transported to Russia in a crate.  In the cargo hold.  It wasn’t a legal venture, so the plane was small and my crate was buried under other baggage.  It was very dark.”  This from a beastman who have excellent night-vision. 

Suddenly Q’s terror made sense.  “You’re not going in a crate, Q,” Bond said with stern certainty.  

“I know.”  Q had watched Bond buy the tickets himself - a seat for each of them.  MI6 would be footing a bigger bill than expected, but Bond would deal with that later.  Q rubbed his upper arms with nervous hands, stopping with a flinch as he came too close to his hidden stitches.  The little scars on his fingers stood out when shifted his positions to clutch at his own ribs as if to hold himself together.  “But I can still smell all of the stale air, and it feels like I’m choking.”

It took quite a lot to get them onto the plane, and it saddened Bond to his core.  They didn’t speak much, because what was there to say?  Bond accepted Q’s fear even if he couldn’t understand it, and he kept a firm arm around Q’s shoulders, saying only - but often - “Stick by me.  If I’m not going in the baggage compartment, then neither are you.”  That held Q together long enough for them to board, and once the reality sank in, Q actually settled down.  By the time they took off, Q was exhausted by the gauntlet of panic he’d just survived.  Bond let him fall asleep against his shoulder, the leash pooled forgotten between them.  

Now they were back in Britain.  In Sussex Downs.  And Q was hiding nervousness with annoyance in the building rain.  “I can’t just  _ knock _ ,” he argued, like James was stupid.  But then he glanced over from under his fringe, uncertain.  

“Why not?” James shrugged, “You called them already.”  That was the first thing they’d done when they’d landed at Heathrow: James had called MI6 while Q had called home.  The number was thankfully unchanged, although Bond didn’t doubt for a second that Q could have hunted down his parents' number with his eyes closed - or his brothers', which Q mentioned he had two of.  While Bond had given a quick rundown of the situation over a secure line, he’d given Q enough privacy to have a tearful reunion by phone with James not far away.  

It had been Q’s decision not to let his parents come to him, but instead wait until the next day (today) to come to them.  At first, Bond hadn’t been able to make sense of Q’s sudden reticence, but he was starting to understand.  

“Yes, but… that was just a talk on the phone,” Q argued, then gestured helplessly at the house with its ivy-grown fence and little white gate, sitting as perfectly as a postcard, “In person…  Well, in person they’ll ask more questions, and they’ll realize…”  Q trailed off and seemed to shrink, his eyes fixed on a rain-rippled puddle just ahead of them.  His face looked so sad that James felt something in his chest twist, an almost physical pain that only got worse as Q continued at a whisper, “They’ll realize that I’m not the same person that left them.”

Bond was frozen for a moment, and they just continued to stand in the rain, both at a loss for further words.  Finally, though, James reached out a hand and squeezed Q’s shoulder through his droplet-dappled coat.  “They’re your family.  And they still want you.”  When Q looked at him reluctantly, James pressed his shoulder again and added more buoyantly, “I know that because I eavesdropped on some of your phone conversation.”

Instantly, Q cracked a faint but crooked smile.  “Eavesdropped, did you?”

“Did I say ‘eavesdropped’?”

“You most certainly did.”  Q leaned into Bond’s hand, and his tail gave a little flick between them to dispel water.  “You’re shameless.  And…”  Bond wasn’t sure how Q meant to finish that sentence, but all of the words he expected were not what Q actually said: “...And I’m grateful.”  One long-fingered hand (covered in a glove, both to ward off the chill and to hide the declawing scars) rose to cover Bond’s, squeezing back, and as easily as that, one of MI6’s greatest spies was floored.  

“Don’t mention it,” he mumbled.  Still, he let his hand linger a moment longer, until Q released it.  Then he went on more briskly and pushed away from the car, “Now, are you going to go and knock on that door, or do I have to do it for you?”

Q’s eyes widened and then narrowed at the threat.  “You wouldn’t.”

James started walking backwards towards the house.  He grinned wickedly.  “I would.  I’m shameless, remember?”

“You’re a helluva lot of things, I’m starting to figure out,” Q muttered in a tone that suggested Bond had better keep his secrets close in the future, or Q was going to figure them out.  The challenge had been laid down, however, and Q darted forward as if to catch him.  Bond had dodged bullets in his life, however, so he easily avoided the hand and trotted a few steps closer to the house, Q swearing after him.  In this fashion, they passed the gate and into the yard with its thick green grass and yellow climbing roses, and Q only froze again when he was on the step.  

“You know,” Bond observed, very softly and very gently from where he was standing stolidly at Q’s side, “You didn’t look this lost even when I’d dragged you all the way to that safe-house, in the middle of Russia.”

“That’s because I’d been in Russia for five years,” Q said, hollowly, unable to look away from the door.  A worn but caringly repainted sign on it said ‘Welcome,’ but Q still didn’t seem to believe it.  

“And you’re - what?  Twenty-something now?  You’ve spent far more time here.  It’ll be just like riding a bicycle.”

“I never could ride a bicycle.  Neither of my brothers can either, ironically.  And I’m over thirty,” Q replied fatalistically, but also with some slight exasperation at Bond’s incorrect guess at his age.  

“That makes the fraction of your time away from home even smaller,” James took that in stride, while a tiny, rather shallow part of him crowed at the decreased age difference between them.  Bond roughly shut that part up.  “Also…”   Bond leaned close enough to just whisper in Q’s ear, feeling the fine fur of it tickle his cheek as it swiveled to listen, “...I think the choice is about to be taken out of yours hands, because I just saw movement flash by the window next to me.  You won’t have to knock shortly.”

Q very nearly bolted.  Bond grabbed his tail to keep him there - he’d have let go if Q yanked, of course, because he’d had a catgirl as a lover once, and she’d told him in no uncertain terms that tails were not for pulling, but it startled Q enough that he froze and glared bloody murder at the fist wrapped around his fine black tail.  By the time Q had opened his mouth to vituperate Bond for his grabbiness... the door had been jerked open.  Bond let go of Q’s tail like a child dropping incriminating evidence.

It wasn’t a broad doorway, but immediately crowded into it were four people - presumably Q’s mother and father, as well as the two brothers he’d mentioned.  The mother was a small, slightly dumpy woman, with sharp features and short silver hair that reminded Bond of M, and sharp eyes that reminded Bond of Q.  She was a half-cat like Q was, but with alert silver ears pricking out of her short hair - perhaps, like her hair, the ears had once been black like Q’s but had lost their color with age.  The man next to her, surprisingly, was fully human so far as James could tell.  He looked like a pleasantly ordinary old gentleman, although his heavily wrinkled expression was wobbling now with emotions, dark eyes looking tellingly wet.  Behind him stood two younger men, the brothers, only one of which had inherited the feline traits - and both of them clearly trying to look proper and professional but starting to fail at the sight of Q on their doorstep.  

For his part, Q had frozen.  He looked like a deer in the headlights, or a rabbit that had just spotted the shadow of a hawk.  He looked honestly terrified, but too petrified to move, tail straight out like a dark, rigid ribbon behind him and ears flattened down into his ridiculous hair.  The other half-cat brother - the taller one, who looked almost stricken as he stared at Q - had inherited the same dark mass of hair, but not the poor eyesight and accompanying glasses.  

Bond observed all of this without moving, speaking, or otherwise drawing attention to himself.  When it seemed like no one knew how to react, however, he reached out just a little (the motion hidden by Q’s body, in front of him) and gave Q’s tail the slightest of tugs.  “Q,” he murmured.  

A massive shudder went through Q’s frame as if he were being electrically jump-started.  Fortunately, it also galvanized his mouth, and in a strained tone that sounded reedy and almost painful, Q squeaked out, “H-Hello.”

And just like that, the stalemate was broken, and the figures poured out of the door to envelop Q in tears and arms.  Bond got the sense immediately that this wasn’t what this family  _ did _ (especially the totally human brother, with the receding hairline that none of his other family members seemed to have, perhaps explaining his pinched expression), but while it was honestly the most awkward group hug on the face of the planet, it was full of sincerity.  James felt something twist in his heart as he watched, standing off to the side, settling naturally into a parade-rest stance like he’d been taught in the Navy.  Tears and stories began to bubble out of the reunited family before him, mostly so mixed together that there was no logic to be found in them, but James knew most of Q’s story already.  

He’d heard enough about Q’s kidnapping last night, when they’d eaten takeaway at his flat, for James to have some slavers to track down, in fact.  Surely he could pitch the idea to M… and if she wasn’t interested in the idea, then it would hardly be the first time that Bond decided to do a bit of freelance hunting.  

Everyone was moving into the house.  Q’s mother hadn’t let go of him since the initial hug, taller brother was looming like some sort of elegant and clingy buzzard, the shorter, sterner brother was trying to hide that he was dabbing at his eyes while their father squeezed his shoulder.  At the doorway, however, Q paused.  His ears pricked up as if noting a new sound - or an absence of sound - and he turned…

The walk behind them was empty.  Bond had left Q to his reunion so as not to intrude.  

~^~

M had tentatively promised to look into the matter of the slavers - the fact that they were kidnapping British citizens was a major deciding factor, as was the fact that they had a witness (Q) who could give an incredible amount of information not only on the people but on the operation.  Most enslaved beastmen were either afraid to talk or weren’t alive or free to do so.  Q had made it clear that he was very much alive, very much free, and very eager to do anything in his power to put a stop to these people.  That made Q one of the bravest people Bond knew.  

Contented with the fact that things had been set in motion, Bond poured himself a glass of Scotch and padded from the kitchen to his sofa in just jogging trousers.  Idly, he imagined Q still with his family, being reintroduced to the world that he’d thought he’d lost.  It was clear that those people loved him, even if Q’s brothers seemed a bit stunted when it came to showing emotion.

Lost in thoughts about Q and his family, Bond still hadn’t sat down a half-minute later when a knock sounded at his door.  Instantly wary, James switched his drink to his left hand and filled his right hand with his Walther before approaching the door at a smooth, easy, barefoot glide.  A glance out the peephole had him immediately tabling the gun, however, and opening the door.  A familiar bespectacled face with alert triangular ears was waiting for him on the other side.  

“Yes, Mycroft, I’m at the door… and James is here,” Q said, and must have been wearing an earpiece, because his hands were empty and so was the rest of the hallway.  There was a pause in which Q must have been listening to the response, and then Q looked at Bond significantly from under his eyebrows.  “I don’t know yet, Mycroft.  I have to ask him still if I can kip at his.”

Amused and warmed despite himself, James folded his arms and leaned against the doorway.  He noted with interest that Q’s eyes followed the motion - or, specifically, followed the flexion of muscles along James’s naked chest and shoulders.  Pulling out a crooked smile, James commented, “Oh, so that’s why you’re here.  What was your question again?”

Obediently but with a smirk of his own, Q replied, “Would it trouble you if I stayed the night?”

“Only if your brother - who strikes me as rather overbearing-”

“Oh, he is.  Terribly.  So is the other one, although he’s being more subtle about it.”  Q’s tone was posh and light and playful, no doubt aware that one of those brothers was hearing all of this.  

Playing along unhesitantly, James rejoined smoothly, “Well, then if your overbearing brothers  _ plural _ don’t mind you staying at mine, then I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”  Bond cocked an eyebrow, adding, “Especially since you’re already here.”

Q’s smile got shyly pleased.  “I am indeed,” he answered quietly, then turned his attention more obviously to his call to his brother, “I’m safely in James’s hands now, Mycroft, so you can at least pretend to stop hovering…”  A paused, and his expression warmed again, but in a new and almost whimsical way, before he said, “Thank you,” and lifted a hand to his ear to turn off the little earbud and take it out of his ear.  Focusing his attention back on James again, Q made an indeterminate gesture with hands that were, James noticed, still gloved.  “May I come in?”

“Please.”  James turned and wandered easily back into his flat, trusting Q to follow.  “So,” James said, returning to his kitchen and pouring up a second glass of Scotch for his returned houseguest, “Not to look a gifthorse in the mouth, but is there any particular reason that you’re staying here and not with your parents?  Or brothers?”

Q chose to perch on the edge of the sofa.  Cheerily, he asked a question of his own, “You consider me a gifthorse?”

“ _ That’s _ what you chose to take out of my question?”

“Just wanting to make sure that we’re clear,” Q demurred like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, “I’m a cat, not a horse.”

Bond’s chuckle was low and amused.  “Noted.”  He returned bearing two glasses this time, and Q took one with a pleased noise that was half feline.  “Are you going to answer the rest of my question?”

“Maybe after I’m a bit more inebriated,” Q hedged, and James left it at that.  It turned out that Q had eaten, but James hadn’t, so they sat on Bond’s sofa while the agent waited for an order of Chinese food to arrive.  Q talked about his meeting with his family while they waited, then turned out to be hungry after all when food arrived, and stole Bond’s eggrolls.  Bond let him, but insisted that Q remove his shoes if he was going to curl up on Bond’s sofa.  Q made some comment about the sofa seeing far worse things than a bit of dirt on it, and Bond pretended not to hear the comment, or the implication that Q was getting closer and closer to figuring out what he did for a living.  By now, the prospect of Q figuring out that James was an MI6 00-agent seemed not only inevitable… but acceptable.  

The evening was relaxing and comfortable… and Q gave away basically nothing, even when he talked constantly.  James learned that Q’s family was overjoyed to see him, and that Q’s mother was still as great a cook as he remembered, and that Q’s brothers were stranger and odder than he remembered.  It sounded perfectly idyllic, and James listened and responded with all the right nods and noises until Q finally petered off at about midnight.  By then, the food was all gone and they were nursing new glasses of alcohol - Q’s second, James’s third.  

“Why are you back here, Q?” Bond finally asked again.  

This time, instead of deflecting the question, Q looked down at his nearly empty glass and swiveled his ears uneasily.  He frowned, troubled, and after a moment James sighed and gave in to the urge to reach out a hand - his palm found Q’s head as it had back in Russia, and Q barely even started in surprise at the touch.  In fact, he leaned closer until James stroked his ears back like he had before.  It was a motion that steadied and soothed them both.  

On the third pass of Bond’s hand, Q began to speak, “I needed…”  He paused, wet his lips, tried again.  “They - my family - are still trying to reconcile who I am now with who I was when I was kidnapped.  They’re trying very hard, but…”  Q looked up, his expressive green eyes begging understanding, “But I needed to be with someone who doesn’t have that problem… someone who just accepts who I am right now without question.”  He shrugged, cheeks pinking a bit and eyes going back to his lap.  

“Someone like me?” Bond coaxed, not unkindly.  

Q surprised him by taking the question bluffly, shrugging and answering dryly, “Well, you have only known me a handful of days, during which time you’ve accepted me enough to sleep with me.  I figure that’s a fairly good indicator.  Plus-”  He lifted his glass.  “-You’ve got good taste in alcohol.  I learned that at the pub.”

Bond started a rolling laugh that built and swelled out of his chest.  He tweaked Q’s ear gently, earning him a half-hearted little yowl.  The various cat-noises that Q made were always a surprise, as were the catboy’s sudden bursts of wry humor during grave moments.  This was how Q had survived, Bond realized, appreciating the complicated young man more and more.  

“In that case-” James chinked his glass against Q’s, “-I’m flattered.  Anyone who is a friend of my Scotch is a friend of mine, and welcome in my humble home.”

Q immediately teased, “There is nothing humble about you,” and nudged a socked foot against Bond’s knee.  

“True,” James admitted freely, before going to refill their drinks one more time.  When he came back, he once again returned the conversation to serious topics, commenting quietly, “Do you plan to take those gloves off anytime soon, Q?”

They’d remained on since Q had arrived, the metaphorical elephant in the room, even when Q was stealing egg-rolls.  Now, Q looked down at them in guilty surprise.  When he reached for them, however, Bond stayed Q’s hand with an accepting, “You can leave them on, Q.  I was just asking.”

“No, no,” Q hurried to say, and went ahead in stripping off the black sheaths from his hands - revealing the little scars, “I don’t mind - here, at least.  I just...”  He shrugged, fell silent.

Bond finished the sentence for him easily, “Didn’t want you family to see the scars?”

Q sighed and nodded as he sank back into the couch.  “My eldest brother didn’t inherit the feline genes, but my other older brother and I used to claw at one another terribly as children.  I was something of a terror, really.  Now…”  Q’s face contorted briefly, baring his teeth in an expression of anger even as his eyes grew wet and bright with sadness instead.  He looked at his hand as if it had betrayed him, or hurt him.  “Now I don’t even have claws to begin with!”  Putting his glass down untouched, Q plucked off his glasses, too, so that he could bury his face against his hands.  From behind his palms, a moment later, he mumbled very meekly, “If you could please pet my head again, I’d be very grateful.”

“Anything, Q,” Bond roused himself into action immediately, shifting on the couch until they were side by side, Q’s head within easy reach once again.  

As Q’s distress slowly faded to tentative purring - a purring that steadied out and deepened as James dared dig his fingers into Q’s hair, teasing the velveteen softness at the base of each delicate ear - the catboy continued speaking, “I also knew I had to come here for the night, because I have a favor to ask that my family wouldn’t understand.”

“Name it,” James said equably.  He couldn’t promise that he could deliver any favor, but he’d most certainly listen.  

Still not lifting his face out of his hands, Q asked in a voice that Bond had to strain to hear, “Could you… do what you did that first night?”

Bond paused with his hand curled in behind Q’s right ear, surprised but also curious.  “Sleep with you?” he asked, for clarity.

“Not just that.”  Q raised his head so that his eyes were visible above his long fingers, and Bond could see the way he took a deep breath before looking James in the eye and saying, “I can ask this of you because you understand, or I hope you will.”

“I’m in no place to judge anyone,” James said truthfully, and Q seemed to take heart in that, finally dropping his hands away from his face entirely.  His eyes even grew contentedly lidded as James’s hand began moving again, massage the base of one soft ear.  He kept in mind the stitches below Q’s other ear.  

Taking Bond at his word, Q sucked in a breath, held it for a second, and then said hurriedly on the exhale, “Can you hold your hand at my throat?  Like that night at your safehouse?  I can’t…”  His exhale ran out, and it got harder to speak, it seemed.  Q stumbled, cheeks flushing again with shame.  “Ever since we took that damned collar off, I can’t sleep.  And I’m exhausted.  So all I can think to do…”  He gave his head a helpless shake, which dislodged James’s hand - which in turn made Q look more distraught, because the broken connection seemed to unsettle him somehow.  “I can either put another collar back on, which would have freaked my family out and possibly made me sick… or I can ask an MI6 00-agent to sleep with his hand around my throat, since you seem to do that unconsciously anyway.”  

James froze and backed off, suddenly needing to see all of the mystery named Q.  Q, who kept surprising him, both with his resilience and his unexpected knowledge.  Q looked up at him with only a small portion of guilt on his face.  “I’m right, aren’t I?” Q asked in a tone that said he didn’t really need to ask at all.  “Don’t worry, I won’t go spreading it around.  Although I think my brothers figured it out, too - they’re observant that way.  And you  _ do _ walk a bit like a predator of some kind.”

Regaining himself and pushing down his shock, James idly tugged on Q’s forelock as he cobbled together an answer.  He wasn’t angry - surprising, since most of the time he was furious whenever someone found out who he really was - but he was a bit impressed.  “You’re officially the least boring person I know,” wall all he could find to say, ultimately.  It was the right answer, it seemed, as Q cracked a smile, looking rather chuffed with himself.  

Then the smile faltered.  Q grew uncertain again, and it highlighted the shadows under his eyes that Bond had overlooked until now.  “Does that mean you’ll help me?”

“Are you sure this is what you really want?”

“I didn’t mind it when you did it last time.”

“Last time all I did was hook a finger through the ring on your collar - I didn’t actually put you in a stranglehold,” James cautioned, starting to  grow a bit uneasy himself.  It had been a bit of a startling surprise, really, to wake up and find that he’d done that.  All 00-agents had odd habits, and incredibly strong survival instincts that could follow them right into sleep, but he’d never seen his reflexes manifest like that - then again, he’d never slept with a collared catboy before.  Still, what he’d done at the safehouse was subtly different from what Q was asking now, and James didn’t want to hurt him.  

But apparently, safety wasn’t what Q was worried about.  Looking painfully sincere, Q reached up to touch the wrist of the hand that had once again frozen in place atop his head.  “Bond…  My family - the people who used to know me so well - barely survived the stories I told them.  I gave them the watered down version of the last five years,” he admitted, “and I can see it in their eyes, that they still want everything to return to normal, but  _ it can’t _ .”  Q looked so torn.  It was a needle pricking Bond’s heart.  “I’ve got issues now, and this is just one of them.  Please,” he pleaded, eyes beseeching with their bewitching, feline pupils, “Please say that you  _ can _ handle what I know they can’t.”  

Bond met those eyes and knew that what he couldn’t handle was saying no to them.  

He used his hand on the back of Q’s head to pull the catboy to him, pressing an impulsive kiss to the silken nest of hair atop Q’s head.  “You got it, Q,” he murmured.

~^~

James wasn’t sure how they’d come to this: a 00-agent, not only found out by a catboy but also sleeping with that catboy like it was the most natural thing.  Goodness knew James had fallen into bed with a lot of strangers for sex, but this wasn’t even about sex - and it wasn’t in some anonymous hotel room, it was in James’s domain, and Q was in James’s pajamas.  They were too big for him, and the bottoms had to ride low so that his tail could stick out over the top (an admittedly good look for the catboy, showing off sharp hipbones and a trail of dark hair down from his navel, as he’d stretched up to tug on a spare nightshirt of Bond’s).  

All without speaking, they now settled under the sheets of Bond’s bed, Q curling over on his right side as Bond slid in quietly behind him.  The stitches on Q’s left arm stood out against his pale skin, peeking out past the borrowed grey shirtsleeve.  

Bond was still shirtless, so he broke the silence to ask lowly, “Want me to pull a shirt on, Q?”  He was already lying down, but if Q wanted, he’d get back up again and rummage for more clothing in the dark.

As before, however, Q was strangely blase about sleeping with another man he’d barely known for a week, regardless of their respective states of undress.  “No, I don’t mind,” was the pillow-muffled response.  And, true enough, Q didn’t tense or draw away as the bare skin of Bond’s torso drew up close against his back - or when Bond’s bare arm reached over him, beginning its reach for his throat.  Only then did Q’s body tauten a little bit.  Watching for every twitch of body-language even in the dark, James paused.  

Without any particular intonation besides patience, Bond asked, “Are you sure about this, Q?  You’ve already figured out that I’m a 00-agent, and most people don’t want a hand like mine anywhere near their throat.”  

Q’s answer was surprisingly glib for someone with an assassin-spy’s fingers hovering near the hollow of his throat, the powerful body of that agent close like a storm at his back, “The benefit of having known you only a short while, and having otherwise never met an MI6 agent of any kind, is that the danger is all rather abstract, really.”

“Q, I took you hostage within five minutes of meeting you.”

“A memory that I’ve compartmentalized.”

“I’m beginning to wonder just how sane you are,” James had to admit, but then he moved his hand the rest of the distance and sealed it against Q’s throat.  He was surprised but also relieved (and maybe a little bit excited) by the immediate, rushing sigh Q released.  To soften his words, knowing that Q’s family had probably questioned his sanity a bit as well, James pulled Q’s head back a little bit until he could brush his lips lightly against the edge of one ear.  It twitched against his nose.  “Which isn’t exactly a bad thing, as my therapists have been questioning my sanity for years.”

Q’s breathing had deepened languidly when James’s hand came around his throat, and he shifted his head as if getting used to the new collar of flesh and bone.  Then… he simply settled back into Bond and into his grip.  James could actually feel the little shivers like aftershocks through Q’s body, and was strangely humbled by it all, even as he inserted his other arm beneath the pillow they were now sharing.  “Did I mishear you, or did you say ‘therapists’ plural?” Q asked, sounding thick and sleepy already.

Curled close like this, Q’s tail dragging in a slow swish against his thighs, was comfortable.  Even with his arm wrapped over Q’s ribcage and up under his arm to find his throat, it was a position that felt natural and easy to sink into.  Talking to the back of Q’s head also made it easier to be uninhibited, especially since Q had already ferreted out Bond’s biggest secret anyway.  “No self-respecting spy is happy with just one,” Bond joked back cheekily.  His breath caught as he felt Q swallow against his palm.  “Are you actually comfortable like this?” the joshing tone fell away to candid wonderment.  

Q’s nod made the underside of his jaw brush Bond’s hand, the tendons of Q’s neck moving against gun-calloused fingers.  “Yes.  More so than I expected to be, actually.”  Another deep sigh followed - with each exhale, Q seemed to sink closer and closer to sleep, his body becoming heavier and more pliant.  His ears had ceased to swivel back and catch James’s every word and sound; James was distantly aware now of only Q’s tail-tip flicking, slow and lazy against his right knee.  But Q wasn’t quite asleep yet.  “Does wanting this mean that I’m broken?” he asked in a voice more vulnerable than the throat beneath Bond’s hand.

A surge of protectiveness made 007’s heart thump hard against his ribs, and his hand flexed without tightening - even subliminally, he was careful not to cause damage.  “No, Q,” he said, very solidly, like the steady base of an old mountain, “Nothing about you is broken.”

“But my hands-”

“Q, I could give you claws like you wouldn’t believe,” Bond cut him off in a low growl that was like a massive threat looming on the horizon - but not a threat towards Q.  More like a promise.  And not an idle one either - even if 007 didn't know people who specialized in unique metalworking (he did, and they owed him favors, too), Bond himself was growing so attached that he’d act as any sort of ‘claws’ Q needed.  Q was feeling helpless and weaponless, but it was pretty clear already that he had a 00-agent wrapped around his little scarred finger.  James pressed his lips to the back of Q’s head on impulse, murmuring ferociously against the back of one ear, “Come visit MI6 and you’ll see the monopoly on broken.  In my world, there’s not a bloody thing wrong with you.”

Q’s next little breath sounded a bit like a sob, and the next swallow was hard; Bond soothed a thumb across Q’s carotid in response.

They remained curled close all through the night, Bond’s hand on Q’s throat like a threat but Q settling into it like it was a reassuring hug.  And when Q rolled over, to butt his head under Bond’s jaw so one feline ear tickled Bond’s chin - declawed hands pressing into the valley between Bond’s pectoral muscles, seeking body-heat to soothe aching scars - Bond barely even woke.  His instincts, sensing no threat, dragged him only enough into consciousness so that he could reposition his hand: fingers curled around the soft, short hairs at Q’s nape, he hooked his thumb over Q’s throat, following the steady heartbeat back down into slumber again.  

If Q was broken, then they were all broken.  And he fit just perfectly into James’s world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! ^_^ A million thanks to commenters past, present, and future - although I often do not have time to answer, I do read everything, and hearing people's favorite lines/parts of my stories always makes my entire day <3 Thank you
> 
> Also, a million thanks and squees and hugs to 10kiaoi, who drew some of the cutest cat!Q and Bond imaginable, and said that I could share it <3  
> You can find her fanart for this fic [here](http://10kiaoi.tumblr.com/post/164834191962/liked-both-couldnt-decide-on-which-it-started)

**Author's Note:**

> I will never ever ever get tired of writing Bond petting Q's ears... so I wrote an epilogue chapter just to have MORE of that ;) Oh, and to write about Q's trip home...!


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